“There is no doubt whatever about that. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. I put my foot down like—like adamant. And from that point they went on to a thoroughly embittering wrangle.
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